She would have run ahead, like she always did. Down the hillside, arms wide, straight into the daffodils, smiling.
She never walked into beauty. She entered it.
I can see her there — kneeling to smell them first, like she always did. She smelled everything before she saw it, as if the world were something to breathe in. Her hair catching the light. The old tree standing over her like it had been waiting all year just for this.
I made this candle so spring would never have to end. Daffodil at the heart — bright, golden, unafraid. Green stems beneath it, and the clean breath of morning air. For everyone who turns toward joy, like she always did.
Look at the hillside now — covered in gold, every flower facing the sun. Daffodils come back every spring without being asked. Quietly. Brightly. Always returning.
